Assassin
by Oriana de la Rose
Summary: Edward is a hitman, the prisoner of a past he can’t escape. When he discovers a girl lying in the road, beaten, he carries her to his home. Can two broken souls mend even when death is on the horizon? AH/OOC.
1. The Assassin

**This is a story line that I have been thinking about for a few weeks now. I hope no one has done anything like this (because I like to be original) and if they have I'm sorry for not coming up with a novel enough idea. Whoops. Oh well.**

**ANYWAY, I so hope you enjoy this. There will be plenty of angst in this story and drama. Along with smut, because you know I can't stay away from it. *winks* haha, thanks for reading. **

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**EPOV**

There are countless ways to die.

A bullet to the head or heart, a wire twisted tightly around the throat, ingested arsenic, a pillow pressed to the face, house fires.

Death is central to my career.

I am employed for my ability to stop a heart, for my skill in the art of death. I am the taker of lives, the grim reaper, the angel of death. At night, when I try to sleep and I have nothing to keep me otherwise occupied, I remember the frantic, surprised, sometimes miserable last look in the eyes of the men I kill for payment. I am constantly haunted by my countless sins, plagued by a past I cannot escape, a past that constantly returns to torture me. And although I have seen life leave a man, although I know that I am slowly killing myself by continuing this endless circle of death and regret . . . I know I cannot stop.

Slit throats, poison, suffocation – this is what my mother has taught me. It is the only skill I possess and the thought of gradually starving to death with no job terrifies me. The memory of hunger is all too real to me – a memory that will always come back to remind me of how life could be if I leave the only career I have ever been good at.

And so I continue the onslaught of death, blood, and bone that has been my entire life. The life that mother taught me.

Now, as I stand at my bathroom sink, hanging my head down with my eyes clenched shut, I cannot get the vision of the previous night's murder out of my mind. I am a murderer, a killer, and I know that when I leave this earth that I am bound straight for Hell.

Quickly, I washed my face and wiped it dry with the grimy towel that had been lying sprawled across the floor, no longer caring if it is dirty or not. The face I see in the mirror is drawn and haggard, dark circles smeared under the lifeless green eyes, unshaven so that dark stubble has formed along my jaw. Mechanically, I took the razor in my hand to shave away the stubble. My eyes stopped on the nearly-dull blades. It would be so easy to simply swipe it across my throat and end my pointless existence.

Abruptly a memory slammed into me of mother and I in the bathroom when I was only fourteen. Since my father had not seen me since my birth, she was teaching me to shave. At least, that was what she said. I had asked her countless times where he had gone but she always ignored my questions. "You must be careful with a razor," she said seriously, handing me the pink woman's razor that she intended for me to use on my face. "We don't want that pretty face all nicked up, do we?" Mother had smiled, showing her straight, white teeth.

As I slowly drew the pink razor over my jaw, I felt it slice into the skin and I winced. She frowned and yanked the razor from my hand. "A blade across the throat is a sure way to end a life," she said, wiping the double blades clean of my blood. "Just make sure to slice the vocal chords so whoever it is doesn't make a sound and gives you away. A razor like this won't make a deep enough cut to kill, though."

I never asked how my mother knew so much of killing and death. I always assumed she had learned it from my father, whoever he was. Sometimes I longed so much for the father I had never met that it was like a needle through my skin.

Now, I quickly pulled open the medicine cabinet and struggled to open the orange transparent bottle. The white plastic top fell into the sink, scraping against the grime on the sides before it stopped over the tarnished silver drain. I pushed a few of the Ativan into my mouth, not caring if I overdosed or not. Death would be a grateful release from the demons that plagued my mind.

I had killed countless men – never women, that was a path I didn't want to walk down – but I had never possessed the courage to take my own life. I was a coward when it came to pulling back the trigger of the .357 Magnum I kept in my bedside table, when it was time to put just a few more of the pills into my mouth and swallow.

My hands shook as I turned on the shower, taking only enough time to run shampoo through my hair and soap over my skin, focusing on keeping my mind away from the events of the night before. For years I had worked to view the victims as no more than animals without souls. It was easier if I didn't look into their eyes, didn't listen to their pleas. Many times when I was hired, the employer would want the victim to be killed a certain way – usually as revenge for past wrongs – but I always made sure that the person didn't experience the brutal pain of death. Mercy was something that never left me, no matter how much I tried to destroy it. I was a killer . . . I killed. The victim didn't have to undergo torture in order to be killed.

Dressing in dirty jeans and a black sweatshirt, I slammed and locked the door of my apartment. The walls of the hallway were stained with God knows what, the paint peeling and carpet worn thin in places. I took the stairs two at a time, eager to be out of the mouth of that decrepit apartment building. Many of the people on my floor used speed or smoked weed and the fumes from the later sometimes made me nauseas.

I took a long run through the grittier section of Phoenix, the first rays of dawn caressing the sky. Pink and reds lit up the dingy sky, night fleeing in the wake of the sun. I saw a couple hookers retreat into a building that had long been assaulted with graffiti.

After I was tired, my legs burning from my especially hard run, I sat heavily down on a wooden bench. The woman sitting at the other end glanced at me and scooted a little farther away. I couldn't blame her; I was hardly the person she needed to be sitting beside. As I watched the traffic speed by, I thought about the deal that I had made with a man whose name was Riff. He had paid double for a double homicide. He had caught his lover, Aton, with another man. Riff never said how he wanted them killed, which was fine with me. Aton had been last night's job and the other man, Phillip, was my challenge for tonight.

Not bothering to shower, I made my way to the coffee shop I visited in the mornings. I waited impatiently in line, letting my eyes roam over the quant surroundings. It was a small shop, only about twelve by twelve feet, and I was surprised to see that there was a line today.

"Hello, Edward, darling," Esme said when I was at the counter, her maternal smile the only comfort I ever felt. "How are you this morning?"

"Wonderful, thank you," I lied. I had known Esme for over five years and she had warmed the hard iciness of my life to the point where I felt almost like a person instead of a machine. She was the mother I always wished I had – kind and caring. "Just regular coffee please," I said, smiling to ease away the frown that had formed on her face from worry. "Black."

She glanced at me once more before turning to get my coffee. Esme knew nothing of my criminal career. All she knew was that I worked at her coffee shop part time five days a week for whatever pay she wanted to give me. Today was among the only day I didn't have to come in for work. "You look tired, Edward," she said, handing me the Styrofoam cup full of black coffee. "You need to sleep more."

I painted a fake smile over my lips. "I'm fine, Esme," I reassured her. "I just had a restless night. I'm perfectly fine."

She looked at me for a minute longer, not quite believing me. "Well, okay, I guess. Just come in tomorrow at usual. If you want, you can sleep on my couch. Maybe it's just being alone in an apartment that has you restless."

I smiled at her motherly attempts. "Thank you, but really, I'm fine. I'll twelve hours of sleep tonight if you want. Lord knows I definitely need my beauty sleep."

She laughed. "Get out of here, you silly boy," she said playfully. "Just stay out of trouble."

"Don't I always?"

I kissed her cheek quickly and left, feeling like a visitor even in my own life. My doubts were not new. I had worried over the same thing for years. What meaning did my life hold? What was my purpose? To kill? That seemed hardly the answer. I pushed away the thought that I was floating in a sea of nothingness, that what I did held no meaning and therefore I was meaningless and worthless. I would think about that later, when I didn't have to worry about dodging traffic.

I had to plan tonight. Riff had given me a picture of both Aton and Phillip and told me where they lived, but the only problem was making his death look like an accident. My preferred way was to simply put a bullet through the head, but due to the investigation that would soon follow I couldn't afford to make this a murder case. The only real choice I had was suffocation.

Aton's body had been found this morning by a friend that had came to visit him. I had seen the coverage on the news before I went out for a run. The cause of death was not yet determined but it was only a matter of time before they saw the bruises on the throat from the shoestring. I purposely blocked out the thoughts of his death and focused on the one I had tonight. Phillip would be easy to kill, he was slight in frame and didn't work out often. By noon, I had everything planned and ready.

Finally, as the darkness slowly swallowed Phoenix and street lights illuminated the city, I dressed in a black long sleeve shirt and dark jeans. February was still a little chillier than I was used to so I took a jacket also. Just in case anything went awry I had stuffed my .357 Magnum into holster on my hip, taking care to check that there were bullets in each of the chambers before pulling my jacket over the gun, hiding it. The clock on my bedside table read 2:23 a.m.

"God, forgive me," I breathed, hating myself even as I said it. Why would He forgive me? I always asked for forgiveness yet I continued to kill. I stared into the tiny mirror that hung on my wall in my dark apartment, my face barely discernable in the night. My face was without expression – hollow and lifeless. I was the epitome of a ruthless killer, merciless.

Not taking time to think whether this fact concerned me, I walked out of my apartment, locking my door securely behind me.

Phillip went to bed early like a good little boy. In the days since I had signed the contract with Riff I had followed him and watched his schedule. Although Aton had been Phillip's lover too, he didn't seem grieved by the man's death. The lights in his house on the outskirts of Phoenix were off, casting the mediocre building into shadow. Plastic gnomes adorned the front lawn, smiling too cheerily for the events that were to happen inside that house. I parked nearly a mile away and walked towards where I knew Phillip's house was, keeping my head low so that anyone looking out their windows wouldn't recognize me. Many hitmen wore masks, but I couldn't stand the confinement. It became increasingly hard to breathe in a mask and I refused to wear pantyhose over my face.

Slipping into the backyard by scaling the high fence easily, I paused, scanning my eyes around the dirt yard, making sure that no prying eyes were on me and that he didn't own any dogs I hadn't seen.

As expected, his back door was locked. The man didn't own any kind of security system other than brass locks and I was quickly past those, feeling almost insulted by how simple it was to gain entrance into his home. My shoes were quiet on the linoleum as I crept through the house.

"Rebecca?" a gravely voice called.

I froze, straining my eyes in the almost pitch darkness of the house. The only lights were the green glow of the microwave clock and the red light on the coffee maker. The back door had led into the kitchen and through the door at the other end of the kitchen I could see what appeared to be a couch.

"Rebecca?" he asked again.

Something was wrong.

My every nerve was coiled tight, my bones creaking in my effort to be silent. I heard a soft sigh and the rustling of fabric. I moved through the kitchen with my .357 in my palm, the hammer pulled back, my finger tense on the trigger. If the man was awake I could simply shoot him and torch the house.

He was sleeping on the couch as if he had fallen asleep while watching TV but had somehow turned it off. His eyebrows were furrowed together, creating a sort of uni-brow. Phillip was having a bad dream. Sighing in relief, I put the handgun back into its holster and quietly took the couch pillow that was lying beside him into my hands.

Gritting my teeth, I took a deep breath. This was the moment I always hated, the moment before I took a life.

Then the pillow was pressed to his face, blocking both his nose and mouth. He stiffened and began to thrash. I was always gifted in turning my mind off so that no thought got in the way of my actions. I was on autopilot, an unthinking, unfeeling _thing_. By now his lung would be screaming for air, his heart rate decreasing as his hands frantically pulled at mine, trying to fight me off to no avail. He arched on the couch, pulling at the hands that held the pillow securely to his face. He went limp but I continued, knowing he had only passed out. Being depleted of oxygen for an extended period of time, his heart would slow and brain cells would begin to die until finally . . . his heart stopped altogether.

It was a slow death, painful in some ways, and I was still unfeeling when I pulled the pillow away from his face. Checking the pulse in his neck, I knew he was dead.

Tucking the pillow under my arm, not wanting to give the police a murder weapon, I walked quickly back out of the house, closing the door with my gloved hand. I made sure to lock it back behind me and to leave no footprints of my shoes on the lawn. I shoved the pillow in a garbage can a few blocks away and walked back to my car. I had cut a lock of his hair to show to Riff in case he didn't believe me, although the only sure way for him to know was to go and see himself.

It would only be a matter of hours before someone found the dead body.

**BPOV**

"No!" I screamed, terror and fury blazing within me. "No, stop!" I struggled to crawl between my father and my smaller sister. The belt buckle hit me hard on the thigh, leaving an immediate bruise. I cried out in pain and held my hands over my head to protect myself. Jessica cried behind me, her dark, curly hair hiding her face.

"Don't you dare defy me again, Isabella," he warned, yanking me up by my hair. "Jessica has done wrong – she must be punished." He let go of me only to push me brutally back into the wall

"She's nine years old!" I cried indignantly, pushing my sister back into the corner and moving in front of her. She already had a myriad of bruises and cuts along her skin from his belt. Her hair was tangled and slightly frizzy. Terrified tears poured down her face as she sobbed behind me in the corner. "You'll seriously injure her!"

My father paused for a moment, staring at me. His dark brown eyes were cold and hard as ice. I felt myself shrink under his gaze, my fear exploding into something I had never experienced before. The look in his eyes wasn't even human.

"I'm sick and tired of your fucking backtalk and disobedience," he said calmly, his voice angry but controlled – a bomb waiting until the right moment to explode. "I give you chance after chance and still you defy me!" He swung the belt, hitting me in the side with the buckle. I gasped and leaned back against the wall, cringing in the pain that bloomed inside me like a blood-red lily.

"Father, please," I breathed.

"No, you won't sway me this time. I've had enough of you, Isabella." Grabbing me viciously by the hair, he stalked towards the front door, yanking me behind him like a cow to the slaughterhouse. Humiliated and in pain, I stumbled after him, my hands going to his hold on me. He kicked the front door open and shoved me out onto the porch so hard I fell down the front steps, the hard concrete assaulting my sensitive skin.

I collapsed at the bottom of the steps, holding my stomach, trying to regain the breath that had been knocked from me. I felt something thick and wet seep from my scalp, warm.

"If I ever see you here again, I swear I will put a bullet between your fucking eyes. And one through Jessica's," he added, looking at where I lay sprawled at the bottom of the steps with satisfaction. He paused for a second and I almost thought he was reconsidering. I looked up at him, begging him not to do this. This was my home, my life. I couldn't leave Jessica with him. Then he turned and walked into the house, slamming the door behind him.

I sobbed once, the sound tearing my throat apart, and touched the warm place on my head. When I pulled my hand back I watched as a thick drop of crimson ran down my fingers, the liquid smeared across my hand. I thought wildly, how appropriate for a slaughtered cow to be bloody. My mind was cloudy and nothing seemed substantial. I was aware of the blood I was losing from my head wound I had gotten when I tumbled down the steps, but I did nothing to stop it.

My legs wobbled when I stood and I fell a few times when I tried walk. So I crawled.

I crawled down the dirty front lawn to the street. My knees and hands hurt from the hard concrete, small bits of gravel digging into my skin. I wondered if the other houses could see me here, crawling into the street at three in the morning where I collapsed on the yellow line. Nothing was real. I could sleep here in the street and no one would run me over. Believing this absurd line of reason, I curled on the asphalt, my eyes following the double yellow lines.

Then, headlights. A car. It slowed gradually when it saw me. I clenched my eyes shut, the bright lights paining my eyes, causing the slumbering agony in my mind to ignite into an inferno. The car stopped just before me, simply sitting there, and I wondered if it would run over me. Then the door opened and a tall figure got out.

"Oh shit," it growled, the voice deep and angry.

I gasped and cringed away from the angry voice, fearing another onslaught of fists and boots. But there was only the gentle caress of his fingers brushing away the hair that had fallen in my face. The tall man crouched down in front of the headlight, facing me, so that the light wouldn't hurt my eyes. My eyes fluttered open so I could see who was before me, but the light surrounded his hair like a halo, keeping his face in shadow.

"What is your name?" the man asked, his voice soft but mixed with an anger I didn't understand. Was he upset at me? Or was he upset because of whatever had made me like this, curled up in the middle of the street.

My mouth didn't seem to work for I simply stared up at the halo around his dark hair. A halo for the dark angel.

He sighed. "So much blood. Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you," he cooed, slowly pushing his hands under me. "I'm only going to pick you up. Where do you live?"

Again, I was silent. He lifted me into to the air, holding me to his warm chest bridal-style. I whimpered in pain, my hands searching for his neck to hold on to. I clenched my eyes shut against the agony in my head and body, not wanting to burden my angel with anything else. I could bear this pain; I had endured far worse than a few bruises and cuts.

There was something soft under me and I opened my eyes to see the interior of a car.

"You're going to be alright," he murmured. "Stay awake, though. Don't go to sleep."

**EPOV**

She lay like a broken doll in the passenger's side seat of my car, her skin dirty and bruised. Her long dark hair was tangled badly and I saw blood clotted in one place on the back of her head. Whatever had happened to her, she had probably gotten a concussion and sleep would be dangerous for her if that was true.

I was furious.

As I climbed into my seat, I slammed the door harder than I intended. She was just a girl, no older than nineteen. Fury screamed in my veins and my hands clenched on the steering wheel as I struggled to control it. In a single second, thousands of visions filled my mind of how I would murder the dick that brutalized her. Never, in my entire career, had I ever hurt a woman.

When I had seen her laying in the road, the dark blood leaking around her like a river of red paint, shock and surprise had been the first things I felt. Then horror. She was so disoriented that she didn't seem to realize that a car sat only feet from her. She wore only a pair of Sophie shorts and a tank top, exposing her patchwork of marks of abuse. Somewhere in my mind, I was aware that what I was doing could be considered kidnapping, that it was stupid to pick up a girl literally off the street and take her to my apartment. But like all unpleasant thoughts, I pushed it to the back of my mind.

"Jess?" she asked softly, breathily.

I turned to look at her. "Wake up," I ordered, tapping her on the shoulder. Her glazed eyes turned to mine for a moment before she looked out the window.

Beneath the dirt and blood, the girl was beautiful. Her legs were long and nicely formed, albeit marred by bruises and filth, and her skin had a creamy tone that seemed healthy despite its paleness. Her face was heart-shaped with full lips and large, almond-shaped eyes. Yet the broken look in her eyes made my foot press harder on the gas pedal.

I chastised myself for my foolishness. What the fuck did I think I was doing? I didn't even know this girl's name. I could get put in jail for kidnapping. Yet I couldn't find it in myself to care.

"Who are you?" she asked as I pulled into the parking lot beside my apartment building. I turned to see that her eyes were clear, the dark orbs shockingly deep.

"No one," I muttered. "No one important."

Then I reached over, hesitating for only a moment, before my fingers brushed over her cheek, from the corner of her jaw to her lips. Her skin was softer than I would have imagined under all the filth and grime.

"You're wrong," she said.

"Excuse me?"

"You are important," she insisted with an urgency that must have come from her delirious state. "You're an angel."

At another time I might have laughed at such a thought. Me . . . an angel. But now I didn't. My eyes were serious as a loaded pistol as I stared at her for a moment longer. This girl who had no name, no home, and whose blood stained my upholstery.

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***cringes* okay, I know this chapter wasn't so good. I was having a hell of a time trying to figure out how to end it. Again, I'm so sorry that this first chapter was awful. It didn't end the way I had originally planned but that seems to happen a lot when I write, doesn't it? **

**Anyway, I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter.**

**Thanks for reading and please review!!**

**-Oriana**


	2. Bleach and Orange Juice

**THANK YOU so much to everyone that reviewed. I really appreciated it.**

**I'm so sorry for the delay in updating. You see, when I posted the first chapter, I hadn't thought a plot line for this story (I was stupid, I know) and I had to think of one before I continued. Sadly, that's how I start all my fics – write first, think later. Ugh, it's a completely stupid and ridiculous way to write, but that's what I do. Hope everyone can forgive me.**

**Okay, back to the story . . .**

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**BPOV**

The dark was a crushing weight on my lungs, burning my trachea. Panic, blinding and staggering, thundered in my heart like a stampede of elephants fleeing over the savannah. It shot through my veins, a terrifying high. I pressed my palms painfully to my eyes, trying to push out reality.

I heard screaming – the high pitched, terrified scream of a young child. Jessica. My fingers clawed at my ears desperately as I curled into a ball, trying to block out the agony of sound. I couldn't remember where I was or what I was doing lying down.

Then another memory assaulted me. The sunlight scorched the top of my head, my hair a halo of fire. Humiliation was swift and strong, causing tears to fill my eyes. I knew that if I tried to cover my nakedness I would only be punished more. And so, with sunburns beginning to form on pale skin, I stood naked in the backyard of our suburban home, in the place where father had ordered me. He had chosen this spot specifically because the neighbors prying eyes couldn't reach into this corner.

My punishment was five hours.

I jerked violently awake, terror lodging like a stone in my throat. Anticipating the hard blow that would inevitably result from my having dozed off, I cradled my head with my arms, cringing.

Yet nothing happened.

The world was strangely quiet around me, and whatever I lay on was soft and broad. Confusion fogging my mind, I opened my eyes. Immediately my bewilderment only multiplied.

The room was dark and quiet, unfamiliar, foreign. Slowly fear began to spread within me. Where was I? And how the hell did I get here? My heart rate began to rise drastically. Sitting up in the strange bed, I looked around the room. It was a shabby apartment, haphazardly cleaned so that only a corner of the room was clean. I saw only two doors – the front one obviously leading to the hall and another one I assumed joined a bathroom. Was this only a two-room apartment? Somehow I would have thought my imagination could come up with something more original than a dirty apartment.

Then I saw a dark jacket thrown over the back of a recliner and my memory surged like a thirty foot swell.

I gasped, holding the side of the bed tightly for support. I remembered everything. The sting of the belt buckle, Jessica's screams, the brutality of the front steps as I tumbled down. Then I vaguely recalled crawling into a ball in the road and the angel with the platinum halo that had cradled me in his arms.

Disoriented, I quickly swung my legs off the side of the bed, standing up. Immediately my head felt absurdly light and I staggered, grasping the wall frantically so I wouldn't pass out. Pain exploded up my side, a deep throbbing originating somewhere on the back of my skull. I gasped at the agony that seemed to go all the way through to the organs deep inside me.

"Oh God," I panted, lowering myself to the floor. Eventually my vision cleared and I began to crawl towards the door I assumed led to the bathroom. My hand grazed a black object and I glanced down, pausing long enough for my mind to register that it was some kind of gun.

A wave of nausea passed over me, and I knew to quickly move to the bathroom or I would vomit over the gun and the three others that peeked out from under the bed. My sweaty palm found the doorknob after what seemed hours of crawling, and I fell into the bathroom.

Crawling to the toilet, I vomited into the spotlessly clean white bowl. There was nothing but dry heaves from my empty stomach, acidic bile rising in my throat. The heaves caused sharp lances of pain to stab through my abdomen. Unable to stop myself, I sobbed once, a thick tear dropping from my cheek to the toilet, mixing with the few bits of regurgitated food swimming there.

Wiping my mouth with my hand, I struggled to lift myself to the mirror above the sink. Gasping from the extreme effort, I finally leaned against the sink, my stomach pressing into the white porcelain. When I could breathe again without feeling as if slivers of glass were being driven into my flesh, I lifted my eyes to the face in the mirror.

The girl I saw there was a stranger. Her hair was dirty and tangled, dark circles smudged under her eyes, and her face was pale as white-out. Her lips were both busted and swollen, filth smeared over her skin. Thick, dry clotted blood crusted on the back of her head when I turned slightly to look. And her dark eyes were simply . . . empty – devoid of any and all emotion.

This face frightened me. I knew it was my reflection I was staring at yet I didn't recognize myself. When had I become a shell of my former self? When had I receded deep within my mind so that my emotions no longer showed even in my eyes? I realized now that I felt nothing. No fear, no confusion, no pain.

I was hollow.

Standing back from the mirror, I lifted the hem of my shirt to see a network of bruises so elaborate that they covered nearly every inch of skin. They were colored dark blue and purple, a few yellow around the edges.

And still I felt nothing.

I wondered if I would ever feel anything again.

**EPOV**

I had left her asleep on my bed, her broken form inert under the blankets. I had felt the strangest sort of reluctance as I left her to gather the last half of my payment for getting rid of Phillip. Reluctance was not an emotion I had experienced often, especially over a woman. Esme expected me to be at the coffee shop in just under an hour and I had never once been late in the entire time I had been employed there.

Now as I made my way back to my apartment, taking the stairs two at a time. My teeth were clamped together, my jaw hard and taut.

I was so fucking pissed at myself. Why had I been so stupid as to take her to my apartment? Wouldn't it have been easier to simply drop her off at a homeless shelter so that they could sort her out? What the hell did I expect to do with her? Her injuries would take weeks, perhaps months, to heal. Did I intend to keep her until them?

Cursing myself for being so impulsive, so _stupid_, I pulled out my keys and inserted the apartment key into the doorknob, turning. The lock slid easily out of place and I slowly swung the door open. The first thing I noticed was that the bed was empty. The sheets were tangled and dragging on the carpet below. I cringed when I saw the horrific state of my apartment. I hadn't had much time to clean before I had to leave to meet Riff and the condition of the room was a testament to that.

She must have been in the bathroom. Suddenly, harsh, bitter memories assailed me again. Unused to reliving the past – I was usually exceptionally gifted at pushing away my memories – I paused and closed my eyes tightly.

"Don't play with the bleach," mother had said, taking my hands away from the cabinet under the kitchen sink. Her fingers crushed my eleven year old wrists and I felt my bones crack painfully. Tears had risen to my eyes as I bit my lip, trying to be a man and not cry. Mother was never aware that she hurt me when she did things like this.

"I'm sorry, mother," I said, moving to stand pressed against the refrigerator. I had watched as she bent down to pick the jug of Clorox up out of the cabinet. Unscrewing the top, I watched with a child's naïveté as she poured bleach into the Spiderman cup that I had been drinking from.

The orange juice mixed with the bleach. Calmly, she set the jug back in the cabinet, closing the wooden door.

"Are you thirsty, Edward?" my mother had asked, turning to look at me, her dark auburn hair glowing like a fire in the light of the sun from the window. It was difficult to see her face with the light behind her and I squinted.

"Yes, mother, I'm thirsty."

"Here," she replied, handing me the cup that now held both bleach and orange juice. "But listen to me, this is very important. Only take a tiny sip, understand? Barely enough to coat your tongue."

The intensity that smoldered in her eyes frightened me as she leaned towards my small body. "I understand," I said, my voice wavering. With her urgent eyes on me, I hesitantly sipped from the liquid inside my Spiderman plastic cup.

"Does it taste any different, Edward?"

I paused, keeping the liquid on my tongue for a moment before swallowing. "Not really," I answered.

"That is because I only put a small amount in it. It doesn't change the taste so much as the smell. Now, if one were to drink this entire cup, the small amount of bleach would have painful repercussions. The individual would most likely die from the effects of the bleach eating through the lining of the stomach and digestive tract." Mother took the cup from my hands, dumping the rest of the liquid into the sink. "There would be acute, agonizing pain."

My eyes widened. "Mommy," I began, using the term I hadn't employed in years. Since I had turned six, she had forbidden me to call her anything other than mother. I forgot that now. "Mommy, am I going to die?"

She smiled tolerantly, running her hand over my hair. "No, silly, you're not going to die. It is proven that experience and hands on learning creates the most effective education. Now you know that bleach does not have a taste as long as it is in small quantities in a drink of strong taste." Bending down, she kissed my forehead tenderly. I grinned and hugged her neck.

I didn't care what the boys at school said, my mother wasn't strange or crazy. I loved her because she loved me and protected me. Or at least, that had been my logic when I was eleven.

Now, I gasped, shaking my head violently to rid myself of the memory. I knew now that my mother had been at least partially mentally unstable, her sense of reason and logic screwed up.

I heard the clatter of plastic, my head snapping towards the bathroom door. I heard the sound of frantic fingers and the rattle of pills inside plastic bottles. I clenched my eyes shut before opening them wide – trying to dispel the vision of my mother pouring bleach into my favorite cup for me to sip along with the orange juice that was already there.

Then I pushed the bathroom door open.

**BPOV**

A startling, splitting headache was throbbing near the back of my skull. Wondering if there was any aspirin in the medicine cabinet, I pulled the mirrored door open. My hand accidentally brushed against one of the orange bottles and they fell from the shelves, clattering into the sink and over the floor. I cringed, praying that no one was around to hear.

I still was unsure of where I was and how I got here. Frantically trying to pick up the spilt bottles, I racked my mind for my possible whereabouts. There was the angel of last night that I was sure I had dreamt up. Yet . . . perhaps it was possible that _this_ was his bathroom. I found it slightly strange how clean the lavatory was as opposed to the bedroom/living room.

Abruptly the door swung open, the knob hitting the pale wall behind it. I froze, my hands pausing in my attempt to stuff the medicine bottles back onto the shelves. My heart faltered in its beating, horror dawning within me as thickly as hot tar. Slowly, I turned towards the door.

He stood tall in the doorway, no longer cast in shadow. His hair was tangled, hanging carelessly over his brow. The man possessed a strong kind of beauty – the kind that made young virgins sweat in their beds at midnight as they fantasized of the way he would ravage their bodies. His eyes were the darkest green I had ever seen, lit with shrewd displeasure as he analyzed my form. He had full sensual lips and broad shoulders that tapered down to a narrow waist. I felt a strange sort of fluttering in my lower abdomen, as if my slumbering flesh had only just awoken and was very aware of his proximity.

"What are you doing?" His voice was the same gentle yet slightly frustrated voice of the angel of last night. But now he had traded his halo for dark circles beneath his tragic eyes.

"Um." I bit my lip, unsure of how to explain. "I felt sick."

He was silent, staring at me with internal anger broiling inside him. I felt small under his scrutiny. "You are filthy," he finally said.

I blushed, knowing he was right. "Would you mind if I used your bathtub?" My voice was faint despite my attempt to sound strong and confident – two emotions I had never experienced in my life. For the longest moment he didn't answer and I feared he was going to ignore my words.

But he nodded once, quickly. "Never touch the medicine cabinet," he ordered.

"Of course," I replied quickly the moment before he shut the bathroom door between us. I leaned back against the sink, deflating like an old party balloon the moment he left. His absence felt strange, as if I was missing something vital to my essential make up. I felt numb again, unsure of what to do now that he was in the other room. I thought about opening the door while I ran the water and got undressed simply so that I could see him and reassure myself that I had not in fact been hallucinating last night. But I quickly decided against that, reaching out to run hot water in the tub.

There was such . . . _tragedy_ in his eyes, as if his soul held all the sorrow of the world. The pained slant of his shoulders suggested that he had witnessed more death and agony than most men short of war veterans.

**EPOV**

Why hadn't I told her to leave? Why had I allowed her pain to sway me? I should have grabbed her by the wrists and pushed her out into the hallway. I should have hardened my heart to the girl with blood in her hair and fear in her eyes.

Closing my eyes, I leaned against the door. She was going to screw my life up. I could not afford to care for an injured girl, no matter how pretty she might be under all the bruises and filth. A girl like that would complicate my life. In my career, it was a lethal mistake to be involved with anyone at all, much less romantically.

Groaning in frustration, I sat down on my chair in the corner, facing the small television set that was currently turned off. I heard the sound of water running, and I closed my hands into tight fists.

This woman, this _girl_, was going to ruin everything I had worked to gain – respect in the underground world, a steady, if petty, stream of customers, and the brittle faith that my way of life would not destroy me as I had so feared.

No, I couldn't allow her to remain and obliterate the life I had made for myself, however shitty that might be.

Which was why I had to get rid of her.

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**Again, let me apologize for not updating AND because this was a short chapter. Mrs. Cullen959 has graciously helped me with the plot for this story. Without her, you wouldn't even be getting this chapter.**

**I hoped you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you so much for reading and PLEASE review.**

**It means so much to me. Not to mention makes me update quicker. *winks***

**-Oriana**


	3. Fingertips Over Damaged Skin

**For anyone that is wondering, Edward is 26 in this fanfic. **

**:D**

**The song I am listening to that is COMPLETELY inappropriate for this chapter: Love Drunk by Boys Like Girls. But it's good. Go check it out!**

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**BPOV**

The water felt good sliding along my skin. The hot liquid nearly scalded me, the soap cleansing the filth from my flesh. I sank gratefully into the full tub, my breath catching at the heat. It had been so long since I had felt the warmth of a bath.

Father had only allowed Jessica and I to bathe once a week while he made sure to shower daily. I had never seen the logic behind the rule. Whenever I had heard the tinkling of the water droplets pelting the bottom of the shower, it had taken all my strength to keep from flushing the toilet or doing something else as petty.

I stared down into the water at my battered body, at the skin that had once been so smooth and flawless. I could only imagine how badly Jessica was hurt. What had Father done after I was left at the foot of the front steps? Had he walked back inside and continued punishing her?

Closing my eyes against tears of frustration at being so helpless to save my sister, I ran my hands softly over my skin, the soap lathering between my fingers. As long as I didn't apply pressure, I was able to wash myself without pain. The hot water was heavenly, a simple pleasure that went straight to my bones. I smiled and closed my eyes. I didn't know how long I remained in the bathtub, only that the water cooled and steam no longer rose from the surface.

I wanted to remain forever in that ocean of filthy suds. I wished that it was the only world I had ever known, that pain and fists, blood and bone had never entered my life. The fragile barrier of innocence that covered us all as children was inevitably torn away by the harsh brutalities of life, sometimes shredded piece by piece until you stood, shivering and naked before a crowd of doctors as they probed and prodded you with metal rods.

Now the cold water sent chills skittering uncomfortably over my flesh.

Rising from the cold water, I looked around for a towel, shivering as the air chilled my wet skin. I didn't see a single towel anywhere in the bathroom. Glancing down at my clothing, I wondered if I could somehow dry myself with the shredded cloth without smearing dirt over my now-clean skin.

Maybe he could bring a towel. And possibly a change of clothing. "Hello?" I called, suddenly realizing that I didn't know his name. "Hello? Can I please have a change of clothes? Maybe just a t-shirt."

I paused to hear if there was any sort of drawers opening and closing – _something_ to indicate that he had heard me. But there was only the silence roaring in my ears and the utter loneliness I felt in the quiet air around me.

Abruptly the door swung open, revealing my angel. There was a small towel over his right arm and a large swatch of black fabric beside it. His forest-green eyes moved from my face to my naked body, sliding over my skin like a damp cloth – wet and hot. I was frozen with shock, my mind shrieking for me to conceal myself, to cover my nakedness.

But I didn't move.

With my heart accelerating and chill bumps exploding over my skin, I stood in the bathtub as the soapy, gritty water drained. His eyes caressed my exposed form like a lover's breath over the most secret of places.

His stare, so intent that my hands began to shake, ignited a small flickering flame inside me. The candle flame within me was something I had only experienced once or twice before, the smoke from it swirling inside my veins, curling tightly between my legs.

He stepped into the bathroom, dropping the fabrics he held to the ground. Slowly, his arm lifted as he moved towards me, as if he wanted to touch my ugly skin.

Then he stood inches from me on the other side of the edge of the tub. His beautiful, tortured eyes were so close to mine, the dark emerald irises drowning in mental pain and emotional turmoil.

I felt the heat from his body, smelt the scent of his skin, masculine yet not unpleasant. For the longest moment I wanted to lean in and draw my nose over his flesh to inhale his distinctive scent.

"Who has done this to you?" His voice was soft with awe yet slightly tinged with the anger that always seemed to accompany his voice. His eyes drifted down to my body – over my breasts that had miraculously escaped most of the bruising, then over my marred abdomen and the dark patch of hair between my legs. "Who has hurt you like this?" he demanded, his voice almost breaking. Then, cautiously – as if he was afraid I would shatter like a glass slipper – he brushed his fingers over my stomach. The touch was so light that it didn't entice the agonizing pain that occurred whenever I moved. At the feel of his warm fingertips, my breath caught and I couldn't have moved even if I had wanted to. My eyes widened as my body yearned for him in strange, unfamiliar ways.

"Tell me," he insisted, his voice barely a whisper. "Tell me who has done this to you."

"If only I could tell." Even to my own ears, my voice sounded brittle and pathetic – broken.

I felt as if I was suddenly sinking into the depths of his eyes, unable to breathe with his fingers moving ever closer to my breasts.

"Why can't you tell me?"

If I could have laughed at that question, I would have. Why couldn't I tell him? Because he would learn that Father was abusive and that Jessica was still with him. For some reason, the thought of him knowing this sent a fear so irrational and paralyzing through me. What would he do with that information? Would he simply kick me out, not wanting to have to deal with the drama of an abused nineteen year old? And what if he told the police and they took Jessica away . . . I would never see her again. No, I had to keep it to myself.

But of course I couldn't laugh.

And I didn't.

"What is your name?" he asked gently, his paternal tone blending oddly with the way his hand smoothed over my stomach.

His hand was so close to my breast, so near. My hands shook and I struggled to keep my breathing as even as possible. Unfamiliar longings swept through me like blades of grass on a hurricane gale. Strange, intense longings that made my core tighten and my breasts become overly sensitive.

"Bella," I answered, thankful that my voice was somewhat more sure.

I wanted him to touch me.

Oh, how I wanted his hands on me. Not once in my life had I wanted something this badly. The few boys I had touched, and the ones I had let touch me, none of them had inspired such yearning within me. Yet my desire was so much more than just physical. Foolishly, I believed that he could touch not only my body, but my spirit. The lifelessness in my soul terrified me. Why couldn't I feel any urgency or panic at my situation? I was in a strange man's home, naked, as he touched me – I should be frightened, or at least repulsed. I wanted to give up, to just forget to eat or swallow handfuls of the unknown prescriptions that he kept in the medicine cabinet.

I wanted him to give me back the dignity that had been so brutally stripped away, to give me my strength and wipe away the humiliation I felt in my bones.

But of course he couldn't.

**EPOV**

I prayed that it was my eyes deceiving me, that no one could inflict such damage on a girl. Cuts and bruises scored her body, predominantly her abdomen.

I hated the obscene thoughts I had of her. But even her battered form held a kind of tragic beauty.

And although I knew I had to get rid of her, I was still a man with a man's needs. My jeans became tight and I hoped she wouldn't look down. Her skin was softer than I had imagined, her breasts smaller than some but perfectly shaped with the dark pink nipples taut and erect. My eyes locked on that feature, my eyebrows furrowing – could it be possible that my touch aroused her?

Abruptly I turned away, angry at myself for allowing her to sway me.

No. No, I couldn't permit myself to feel anything for her – not pity or sympathy, and certainly not lust. The last was the most inappropriate and dangerous. The last thing she needed was any type of sexual tension.

Growling in frustration, I shoved the towel and over-sized shirt into her arms, not meeting her eyes. Not pausing, I walked quickly out of the bathroom, shoving the door shut too hard.

Oh fuck, how could this happen? If I was smart, I would ruthlessly kick her out into the street and be finished with her. But I couldn't. Deep within myself, I knew that I didn't _want_ her to leave, and that was the thing that most infuriated me. Despite my attempts to distance myself from her, I was drawn to this girl – Bella – with a magnetism that was not entirely healthy, not to mention lethal.

And no matter how badly I wanted to deny it, her bruises ignited the most painful of all memories. I remembered with agonizing clarity the night in which mother taught me her last lesson of death. Clenching my eyes shut, I pushed the images back as I leaned heavily against the closet door. Emotions that I had repressed for the last ten years now boiled relentlessly inside me.

Quickly, I walked to the TV, flipping it on simply to purge my mind of the harsh and bitter memories. Yet they persisted.

There was the slight resistance of the trigger as a finger tightened, pulling it. The spray of the blood. The thud of a delicate body crumbling to the floor.

The worst sin I had ever committed.

The first murder in what would be a lifetime of slayings.

Then the bathroom door opened slowly, almost hesitantly, and I saw the girl. It was hard for me to think of her by her name, Bella. I didn't want to think of her as Bella – that would make her too real, to easy to pity. And it would cause my resolve to crumble if I thought of her as the broken girl she was.

The black t-shirt hung off her frame like a parachute even though it extended only to her mid-thigh. Her limbs were shockingly thin and I couldn't withhold the surprise that washed over me. Had she really been so thin just a few minutes ago, when I looked at her naked body? For the first time, I truly saw how utterly tired she looked . . . and how afraid and confused. I tightened my hands on the arms of the chair, making myself stay in my seat and not go to her. I wanted desperately to wrap her tightly in a thick blanket and feed her large quantities of chicken soup as she lay in my dingy bed.

I had never seen eyes so haunted. Why hadn't I noticed that before? Why hadn't I seen the pain that was etched into her dark eyes? Against the dark black of the t-shirt, her skin was chalk-white, the blue of her veins visible through her translucent skin.

She looked so . . . _fragile_.

"Thank you," she whispered. Her voice was hesitant and meek, and I instantly felt callous for how I had been treating her. She stood awkwardly in the doorway – unsure of what to do.

"Sit down," I said, softening my tone. I gestured to the bed that was only feet away from where I sat in the chair. She walked slowly to the bed, her wet hair hanging down her back. Despite the delicate state she seemed to be in, her movements were filled with an uncanny grace. She sat heavily on the edge of the bed, curling her legs Indian style.

The hem of the black shirt rode up to her waist, the place between her legs now exposed.

All at once, I felt a rush of blood to my already hard member. She was still damp there from the bath water . . . or perhaps it was because of what had occurred between us. My eyes stayed fixed on that part of her, my breathing beginning to quicken. In a single moment, thousands of visions filled my mind of each and every way I could explore that area of her. Suck her until she ran dry, fuck her in so many positions she wouldn't know which way was up. My balls began to throb with the force of my need. Tearing my eyes away from the seductive place between her legs, I looked back into her eyes and immediately felt ashamed for my obscene thoughts. She didn't deserve to be treated so disrespectfully. This girl, who had been so brutally beaten, didn't need to have me staring at her.

The only sound between us was the television.

"I don't know how to repay you," she finally said.

"You don't have to."

"Yes I do," she insisted.

I sighed. Damn, this girl was stubborn.

"What is your name?" she asked then, her voice carrying more strength than I had ever heard from her. Glancing up at her, I saw her eyes fixed intently on me, as if she was trying to unravel my soul to learn each and every dark secret. Reflexively, I shied away from such prying eyes. I debated on ignoring her but I knew that having at least _something_ to call me would make our situation so much less difficult and awkward.

"Edward," I said finally, gritting my teeth as I spoke. I couldn't say exactly why I so wanted to keep my name from her except for the fact that the thought of her knowing anything personal about me automatically put me on high alert.

"Edward," she repeated, the word rolling softly off her tongue like a thick drop of amber liquid from a honey jar. "It is an old fashioned name."

"Yep," I muttered lowly.

"It suits you."

**xXx**

**BPOV**

I fell asleep a few minutes after he left to work at a coffee shop. He wouldn't tell me where it was though and told me stay in the apartment and not to leave. The apartment building apparently wasn't the safest place to be alone.

I slept so deeply that darkness was my only companion. For once, there was no terrifying memories and no screaming as I woke. I was so tired . . . so exhausted. It was so easy to simply lie down on the bed and forget to think or move.

There was only the soft sheets and darkening sky as night once again descended.

The door opening woke me and my eyes slowly opened to complete darkness. After attempting to sit up, I knew that was a horrible mistake. My body felt as if I had been beat with a sledge hammer repeatedly, ruthlessly. I cringed and blinked back tears, struggling to keep silent. Years of punishment for crying in front of Father were hard to forget. He never liked to see Jessica or me crying. If we did, our punishment would be that much worse.

The bed dipped beside me, as if someone had just climbed in beside me. I froze, suddenly no longer tired. My heart beat quicker as I tried to remember where I was. I couldn't seem to remember anything. But then everything rushed to me so fast I forced back my gasp. The body beside me warm and solid, firmly muscled yet relaxed in slumber. He was sleeping.

Edward was sleeping beside me in this bed.

Did he even remember I was lying here also?

Perhaps he was just too tired to remember. Taking a deep, quiet breath, I turned towards him, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. I saw the lines of his body, the usually pale skin dark in the night. He was facing me, lying on his side on top of the blankets, and was utterly and completely naked.

Abruptly, I forgot to breathe and my heart rate skyrocketed, soaring through the ceiling. I moved backwards reflexively, astonished to be so close to his naked form. Now I was sure he didn't remember I was here. Did he always sleep nude?

I tried to look away.

I tried so hard.

But something kept my eyes on him. His face wasn't angry or frustrated like it had been most of today. Instead it was serene. My eyes moved from his seraphic face – the few small scars marring his otherwise flawless skin – to his throat and strong, broad chest. He was mostly hairless, a fact which I noticed with appreciation. His abdomen was lithely muscled and firm, his arms hugging the pillow to him in a way that was almost childish. And then there were his hips and that V that pointed to the place I couldn't look away from. I had never seen a naked man before and the sight sent jitters through my blood and a strange yearning between my legs.

His member was soft but long and thick. Dark hair curled around its base and his balls were nestled close behind his penis. I felt a dark blush blossom over my face yet I continued to stare. The sight of his manhood was so foreign to me. I had touched a covered cock before but I had never seen one. Of its own accord, my hand reached out, hesitating just before my fingertips brushed the head of his cock.

Biting my lip, I leaned forward and brushed my fingers over the head of his dick.

Immediately, I felt it move, twitching slightly. His fingers tightened on the pillow and his hips pushed slowly into my hand, causing my hand to rub down his shaft. A deep, barely-audible groan left his lips. Astonished as his reactions to this, I glanced from his face then back to his penis which was nestled in my hand. Experimenting, I moved my hand slowly down to the base of his member, my lips turning upwards when he moaned and bucked his hips.

Curious, I moved my fingers to his sac, feeling the foreign object.

Suddenly I realized what I was doing. My eyes widened and I yanked my hand away as if it had been scalded by a hot stove. I cried out softly, nearly falling off the side of the bed in my haste. Frantically, I gripped the edge of the bed to keep from falling.

Then the bedroom was all too silent. He was awake.

And he knew what had happened.

Slowly I brought my eyes up to his green ones that stared relentlessly into mine. The look I saw there made me clamp my legs tightly together to keep me from moistening. If I was wet it would be terribly uncomfortable considering I wasn't wearing anything other than his black t-shirt.

Unable to help myself, my eyes flickered to his now hard penis.

"Come here," he said softly, the sound like an ocean breeze against my breasts, tightening the nipples.

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**BEFORE anyone goes assuming, Edward might have more than one thing planned when he asked Bella to come to him. Just so you know. I don't want anyone to assume ANYTHING. Please?**

**So, guys, this story isn't upholding the standard I have set for myself. That means that I am seriously thinking about deleting this. It's not final yet and I'm still deliberating, but I feel like this story is shit, pardon my language. ****Your opinion would mean so much to me. Thank you. Please tell me if you think I should continue or not.**

**AND breenieweenie made a youtube trailer for my story Dark Whispers, if anyone would like to see that! It's SO effing AMAZING!!! Go check it out, guys - the link is on my profile.**

**-Oriana**


	4. Perfection

**So, obviously, this story has NOT been deleted. I decided to continue with it and I hope you guys enjoy what is to come! Thank you so much for everyone's patience with my stupidness. I'm sorry for freaking a few people out. **

**So here's a new chapter!**

**(I didn't have time to proofread, I'm sorry)**

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**EPOV**

When I climbed the stairs to my apartment that night, I was so exhausted that it was hard for my eyelids to remain open. My feet dragged sluggishly over the stained floorboards. Esme's optimism had been particularly difficult that day. I had shrugged off her concern.

I purposely kept Bella's appearance from James. James Caldier was my boss, the one who supervised everything I did and kept the police from investigating my hits too closely. I was strictly a small-time hitman by my own choice. I didn't want to become involved in the political rivalries of powerful men. For now, at least, warring lovers and jilted business men were my customers. James was always present when a contract was drafted.

Through the past few years I had known him, James had sort of acted as a pimp for all intents and purposes. It was almost amusing the parallels between my life and that of a hooker.

In a thick haze of exhaustion, my key slipped through the lock in the door. The interior of my apartment was as dark was the inside of a sealed coffin, thick and suffocating. I mechanically stripped off my clothing as I did every night. My mind was in other places as I moved towards the bed. I didn't care enough to brush my teeth or shower; it was an effort simply for my eyes to remain open.

The softness of my bed was heavenly and I nearly wept with relief. Immediately, I fell asleep. In my dreams I saw the girl with the dark eyes and misused body – Bella. She was lying beside me on the bed, her eyes watching me. Then, in my dream, she reached slowly out and brushed her fingertips over the head of my cock. Her touch was so real and solid, yet was softer than a baby's breath. Sharp spikes of pleasure shot up through my shaft and balls, imploding inside my body. I groaned deeply, pushing my hips into her hand.

It had been years since I had known the feel of a woman's flesh, years since I had attempted to lose myself in the ecstasy that was immediately followed by guilt and disgust. I had long since forgotten carnal desires, repulsed by the fakes smiles of the plastic blondes and brunettes. They could never understand the true meaning of pain, the reality of knowing that – no matter what good you did – you were bound for Hell because of all the lives you had taken.

And so, I had rejected every woman that had attempted to touch me.

Yet I yearned for this girl whose spirit was as shattered as her body. Abruptly a startled cry woke me and I saw that she clung desperately to the bed as if frightened she would fall off the side. It was then that I realized that the reason my dream was so vivid was because it had actually happened. Bella had really touched me and I had reacted.

Her eyes were wide and fearful as she stared at me. Something in her stiff demeanor suggested that she was anticipating violence. I could see in her eyes that she believed she had overstepped some boundary and now she was unconsciously readying herself for the assault.

No. She couldn't believe that I would ever harm her, could she? How could she think I could ever do anything to hurt her? She was like a toddler cowering in the corner, waiting for the first blow to come.

And she didn't even know it.

She didn't realize how she was acting, it was so instinctive to her – a learned behavior from a lifetime of abuse.

I had to make her see that I could not and would not hurt her.

"Come here," I murmured softly, reaching my hand slowly towards her. My member was still hard but I studiously ignored it, hoping my erection would go away.

It was impossible to ignore the way my black t-shirt fit her and how beautifully pale her skin was. The darkness enveloping the room cast shadows across her features and small form. Realizing I was still naked, I reached over, pulling the sheet quickly over me, hoping that would make her more comfortable.

She hesitated, her eyes traveling down to my erect dick.

A swift, hot spiral of lust twisted within my shaft. My hands twitched as I fought the impulse to curl them into fists to resist my desire. Her stare was like a hot tongue on the head of my cock. This attraction I felt towards her was dangerous. I had to exterminate any curiosity I had, any pity.

But then she moved towards me slowly, hesitantly – just as I had asked – and I forgot everything but her haunted dark eyes as they came closer. It was evident by her breathing that her heart was speeding and I didn't know if it was from anxiety or arousal.

"Don't be afraid of me," I said softly, brushing her soft hair from her face, those deep tragic eyes staring back at me with a look I could not fathom. "I could never hurt you."

"I'm not afraid," she murmured, the sound the barest of noise. She lay on her side facing me, her face less than a foot from mine.

Her proximity felt somehow more intimate than the most erotic of touches. She stared into my eyes with a soft probing curiosity, as if she wished to draw my dark soul out into the light of day. I felt the heat of her body in the air around my naked skin.

Never had I allowed anyone to look this closely at me. Of course she saw my tarnished heart. Of course she saw my fucked-up soul. How could she not? The very thought of this angelic creature looking into the black tar of my sins made me cringe. It was ludicrous, but I wanted her to forever think of me how she did the first night I saw her – as an angel. Quickly, I looked away from the eyes that had so captivated me. I turned so that I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling.

**BPOV**

In the darkness, his features were less discernable. There was a strangeness in his jaw that reminded me of Charlie, my father. No, I wouldn't think of that. This Edward was nothing like my Father. Nothing at all.

I forced that brutally from my mind along with the startling explosion of fear any thought of Charlie produced in me.

Abruptly he pulled away, laying on his back. The sudden movement stunned me and I froze. Without thinking, I asked, "Did I do something wrong?"

His sharp green eyes turned to mine. "No. No you didn't." With a deep, irritated sigh, he looked back up at the ceiling.

What was going on? Why was he acting as if he was aggravated that he ever had to speak to me? Because he _was _annoyed I was here. He wanted nothing to do with me. The only thing I was to him was a burden.

"Forgive me for even being here," I muttered acridly, sitting up.

"What?"

"I never asked you to pick me up out of the street," I spat, cringing at the spiderweb of agony that spread through my body. I gasped and paused, gritting my teeth. I couldn't imagine how being beaten with a sledgehammer could be much different than this. When the pain faded to a dull throbbing, I stood to my feet. "You don't have to do me anymore favors. Thank you for everything but I have to go now."

I didn't know where I was going to go or how I was going to live on my own without even a decent pair of clothes. My utter helplessness infuriated me, making my heart race and my blood boil. There was no way I could support myself, and that knowledge only angered me. And what would I do about Jessica, my smaller sister? I couldn't simply leave her with _him_.

I stumbled to the corner in which I had dropped my clothes.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" he demanded, sitting up, the sheet falling to his waist.

"I'm leaving, dammit! I know you've hated having me around. I'm sorry I've been such a burden to you. I'm sorry you found me in the street. I'm sorry my fucking father beat the _shit out of me_!" My voice was at a yell, cracking pathetically on the last word. I was on the verge of dangerous, heated tears – tears completely weak and pitiful.

Edward stood quickly up out of the bed, the sheet falling from his body as fluidly as water, slipping back to the mattress. "Wait, just think about this for a minute," he began rationally, reaching for me.

I moved quickly out of his reach and whirled to meet his eyes. "I know you don't want me here, you don't have to tell me. I know I'm just some girl you think of as someone that needs help and maybe I do need it, but I sure as hell won't get it from you! So you can just go back to your perfect life and your perfect face, and leave me the fuck alone!" Hot tears streamed down my face and I could tell my reasoning was flawed. I could no longer remember why I was yelling and a splitting headache was beginning inside my mind. I took a deep breath, but it did nothing to control the blinding fury inside me. I was so angry, at myself, at him, and at most of all at Charlie. Everything was my father's fault; he was the reason I was crying and screaming.

"My _perfect life_?" Edward's voice was incredulous, his naked body firmly sculpted and nicely shadowed in the night that caressed our skin. "You don't know anything about me," he spat lowly, his eyes like daggers into my soul. "How could you possibly know what my life has been? You don't. You're just a pathetic little girl who thinks she knows everyone's business. So don't give me this shit that you know what I've been through. You know nothing."

The tears came faster, hotter, and I frantically tried to pull my jeans on, managing to get them up to my hips before a deep, tearing sob racked my chest.

And something inside me cracked, shattering into irreplaceable shards, slicing my heart. My anger vanished as if it had been all part of a magic show, and I felt that most terrifying of feelings

Emptiness.

Again, I had turned into that hollow creature with no feelings. "You're right," I whispered as I sank to the floor. "I'm pathetic. I don't deserve even the kindness you have shown me. I'll leave, I promise." Looking up into his eyes, I attempted to smile. "I'll leave now." Carefully I lifted myself to my hands and knees despite the sharp lances of pain from my abdomen. I wondered vaguely how a broken rib would feel.

**EPOV**

My God, what I had done?

Looking at her as she crawled towards my apartment door, her movements disjointed and jerky from her pain, my heart broke. How could I have said those things to her? How could I have been so heartless? I had just tried to convince her that I would never harm her, and yet I hurt her as deeply as anyone could. Was I really so cruel?

"No, Bella," I whispered, sinking down to the floor beside her as she slowly moved towards the door. "Don't go, please." I hesitantly touched my hand to her back, feeling the heat of her skin through her shirt. "I should have never said what I did. It was so wrong of me. Please don't leave." My voice surprised even myself. I was begging her.

"No, you don't need me hanging around," she murmured half-heartedly, stopping in her journey to the door. Bella turned towards me, looking into my face. "I really am sorry for bothering you."

"Stop it, Bella, you haven't bothered me," I said a little too harshly. I immediately softened my tone. "What I said wasn't true. I was only upset because I remembered my past, and it isn't something I like to relive." I spoke the last sentence stiffly. This was the closest I had ever come to speaking of my past with anyone. Ever. Purposely I shoved the harsh memories into the back of my mind to be confronted hopefully years later.

As much as I tried to push back my emotions, I couldn't escape the fact that I hated myself for what I had just did. I had just shattered her heart more than it already was. It was long moments before I realized what had just passed between us. Now I saw her words without the veil of anger. She believed she was a burden to me; she believed that I wanted her gone; and her father had beat her. Had he left her in the street that night? Or had she crawled there?

If I didn't know anything else, I now knew that I wanted her here. That decision would probably be the biggest mistake I had ever made, but I wanted it so badly then. For reasons I could not imagine, I needed her desperately.

"I've been alone for so long, Bella," I said softly, taking her hands gently in mine. "Such a very long time. Please stay. Please stay with me."

She stopped breathing then, our eyes locked in a look that I had never experienced before. My nakedness seemed only a minute detail in what was happening now. Her touch was an electrical wire on my skin, filling me with a sparking sensation that was not unpleasant.

I had never bared myself emotionally as much as I did that night. I felt a terror in my bones that I had never felt before. I sat vulnerable on that floor, our hands joined softly, terrified as I had never been since my extreme youth. Rejection was eminent. What other choice did she have than to push me away and continue out that door? It only made sense for her leave me. I knew that. And I was scared of how vacant I would feel when she left, how empty.

"Okay," she murmured, her lips moving slowly. "I want to stay . . . if you'll have me."

And then I drew her closer, cupping her cheek with my left hand. For reasons unknown, I needed her. She made me feel as if I had a purpose in this world.

I knew that, if I wanted to live as I always had, then I had to toss her aside like a used tissue. I had to push her out that door and say it was all a terrible mistake. But I was no longer sure what I wanted. I was no longer certain if I could continue to exist in the hell I had made for myself when she was gone. So I held her jaw gently.

"Stay," I whispered. "Please stay."

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**Dang, I loved this chapter. I love all the emotional chapters! lol So, Edward is feeling a lot of uncertainty about what he's feeling for Bella and why he needs her. And Bella is experiencing pretty much the same thing.**

**So, obviously, I'm not deleting this. Thank you so much for everyone's support on the last chapter. I'm going to stick it out though and see how this story turns out. **

**And if anyone has questions, I will be all too happy to answer them! As long as they're not part of a plot twist I have planned. *winks***

**-Oriana**


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